Then & Now
by Jewcika
Summary: I've replayed everything about him in my head over and over again since we came undone. It's proving harder to ignore the thoughts each time. KennyKyle.
1. How Do You?

**IF YOU USUALLY SKIP THE AUTHOR'S NOTE**: at least take the time to read this paragraph if you want to avoid mild to fair confusion. The title of the story, Then & Now, comes from the fact that this story will jump around from past to present. At the top of each chapter, I'll have either "Then" or "Now" and a brief note on the age and grade of the narrating characters, other relevant characters, and sometimes the month so that the time frame is clear. If there's no ages or grades, assume the information from the last Now or Then. The point of the two separate time frames is to keep adding bits of information from one situation to the other, in which it'll all blend together in the end. The POV of this story is in first person and will also change from chapter to chapter, mainly between Kyle and Kenny, but it will also include a few chapters from the POV of other characters. This first chapter is just sort of a prologue, so it's quite short.

The idea for this story comes directly from a oneshot I posted a while back called "I'll Be Your Sins," which I took down to put this story up. I read it the other day and got a wave of inspiration to make it into a multi-chaptered story, so I sat down and planned how I would go about it. If you read the oneshot, you'll notice that most of the first and third chapters have direct bits from it. I've planned out this story chapter-by-chapter and plan to finish it, so rest assured that it will not be abandoned. Updates will happen whenever I finish the chapter ahead of the current one (e.g. chapter two will go up when chapter three is finished). I can't promise any specific amount of time between updates, and I'm currently studying to take the SAT's in June so I'm busy much of the time.

I am not an experienced writer, so any comments to help me improve as one are appreciated. All that said, happy reading!

**Disclaimed.**

* * *

Now

October

Kenny: seventeen years old, senior year

-

God damn, it's fucking cold. Yesterday, the snow that accumulated over the week had finished melting and it looked like a promise for a nice day today. "Sunny day" my ass. It's pouring outside and the rain is plummeting down painfully like a collection of sharp, cold bullets. I think it might start hailing soon. Top it off with an obnoxious raging wind blowing straight at me, making it hard to walk forward. All I have is my thin jacket and I don't even know where the hell I'm going.

I'm just wandering aimlessly yet it looks familiar, so I must somehow know where the fuck I'm heading. I've lost track of how long I've been outside, but it must have been some time because my alcohol buzz is almost gone by now, with the weather and all. I'm still in a pleasant daze. Well, at least it would be pleasant if I wasn't practically fighting my way through a storm right now.

Oh, so I did now where I was going. Damn subconscious, or whatever is the reason I ended up in front of his house. Fuck, I haven't even spoken to him since we were... what, fifteen, sixteen? Good ol' Cinco de Mayo of our Sophomore year, I would have been sixteen. Yeah, with his mom sending him to another school a month before the year ended. I'm pretty sure it was partly his decision as well, though. It makes me sad to think about it. Nearly two years and I haven't figured out who to place the blame on: me, him, parents, school, or just life in general. I've replayed everything about us in my head over and over again; from when we met in preschool, finding out about the attacks, our first kiss, the shrinks, the dirty Denver bathroom stalls, the flashing red and blue lights, the out-of-service phone numbers. My head is splitting, it's too much to think about.

I feel a pang of guilt in my chest and it's made worse with the depressive atmosphere of the whole situation, but I also feel something old and still just as strange as it's always been. Desire. Lust as well, but true longing and desire for the love that only he has ever shown towards me. That's something that I'll never be able to forget.

I'm probably going to get hypothermia out here at this rate, although I don't really care about myself like I used to. I'm trying to fight this urge, but I find myself closer and closer to his doorstep as my feet move without my permission, and I know I would never go near this door without alcohol in my system. The rain is still pummeling my back, and I find more protection from it under the edge of his roof. I'm just standing here now, wanting strongly to leave, yet finding myself unable to move at the same time. Oh God, there's no way this could end well.

Maybe the rain is my motivation this time around, but as I ring his doorbell and wrap my arms around my thin frame, I just blame it on the alcohol. I've never been good on placing blame, after all.


	2. Momma

Then

Kenny: twelve years old, seventh grade

Kevin: fifteen years old, Freshman year

00

"Now, Stuart, I told you before, ahm sick o' you lyin' 'round all day get'n' shit drunk! Ah never wanted nothin' like this, ah shoulda listened to my mother when ah had the chance. Ahm leavin' and ahm gonna find something better than this!"

"Well, good riddance, bitch! Hey, you're not takin' the sheets with you!"

"It's not like you paid for 'em, you good for nothin', lazy bastard!"

As I stand in the doorway of my parent's bedroom, I remember when I used talk in mom's Southern drawl because I thought it sounded so funny. Then the guys called me a fag for it and I stopped. I watch as mom and dad exchange insults and mom throws a bunch of stuff into a suitcase. When she runs out of room, she grabs some plastic bags and starts throwing stuff in there. At this rate, she'll probably have the whole house in those bags in no time. She looks really mad. They go on yelling and I'm surprised the cops haven't showed up yet. Actually, I'm not all that surprised. If somebody drops our name to 911, they probably won't show up until they get more than five calls. It _is_ the McCormicks, after all. I feel a pair of hands rest on my shoulders, and feel Kevin's hot breath on my neck. "Kenny, why don't you get out of here? They're really going at it, you could get -" His dialogue is cut short as a lamp explodes a foot or so from my head and I jump, startled.

Kevin gives an annoyed sigh and sets me on the living room couch. He takes a cigarette from behind his ear and lights up outside, the door slamming angrily behind him. I'm surprised to hear silence from my parent's room, then my mom's hushed whispers and my dad spitting out his words at her. Probably literally, and I wouldn't want to be near my dad right now. I roll my eyes and lean back to watch the static on television. I don't bother to switch the channel or turn it off.

It's not like this never happens. Mom's been leaving and coming back ever since I started middle school. The first couple of times it happened I was kind of scared, but now Kevin and I just try to avoid dad until she comes back again. She always takes some clothes in the same tattered brown suitcase, the case of booze we keep in the hall closet, and comes back on Sunday all prim and proper from my auntie's, calling the shots over dad. It's always pretty sweet having Kevin kick dad's shit-faced ass when he gets too obnoxious while she's gone. I hear dad swear in their bedroom and snort. Mom probably punched him on her way out. Mom comes out of the room, loaded. My semi-amused grin falls as I watch her make her way outside and place all the shit she's carrying in the beat-up truck. Instead of looking pissed, she looks like she's crying. Something's not right. Mom never cries, she just gets mad. I wonder if dad said anything to upset her, but that doesn't make sense because mom can usually defend herself against him better than he can against her.

I remember Kevin's smoking out there, and he's probably gonna get yelled at for it. I make my way over to the window to see what's going on outside and look on confused as Kevin throws his cigarette to the ground and stomps on it, looking serious. Mom's smoothing his hair in a motherly way we rarely see in her. I cock my head to the side like a puppy would, a habit I caught somewhere that Cartman says makes me look really gay. Things aren't making sense, though.

Kevin's hugging mom now, and he's talking in her ear. His lips are moving really fast, and the way mom's chin moves up and down from Kevin's shoulder, I think she's probably saying as much as he is. What the hell - Kevin just pushed her! I frown angrily and see her place her hand on his cheek. I relax, realizing I'm kind of tense. Uh-oh, they're looking at me now. I feel slightly embarrassed for having watched all that, so I run over to the couch and quickly switch the channel. They probably won't buy that I was watching some guy preaching eternal damnation if you don't follow Christ, but I hear the door open and it's too late to switch the channel. I think I was kind of hoping to see Kevin helping mom bring her things back in the house, but it's just mom who comes in and takes a seat next to me. I tense as she puts her arm around me and starts smoothing down my hair. It's just not what mom _does_. It's all wrong, it's all so wrong. My stomach feels weird, and I have a bad feeling about something. Kind of like I used to get when I would die all the time before Satan said they were cutting the funding in heaven and hell.

"What're yeh watchin', Kenny?"

Her voice is soft and gentle. I don't know why, but I'm a little scared to look at her. "I dunno."

Silence. Awkward, thick silence. Then she speaks.

"You an' yer brother are good boys, Kenny. An' ahm proud o' both of ya. Now, ah know that you can take care of each other, too. Always stick together."

I stare at her with wide eyes. She looks so sad. "You'll be back Sunday, right mom?"

She looks away from me in favor of the television screen, staring at it for what seems like hours. I repeat my question. She finally looks at me again. I tense up when she gathers me in her arms and gives me a hug that nearly pops my lungs. "Kenny, ah love you very much. Don't'cha ever forget that now, ya hear?" I nod, frustrated that she isn't assuring me that she'd be back Sunday with some of auntie's cookies wrapped up in a napkin for me and another one of my cousin Katie's dumb little pictures. She puts her fingers to my lips as I open my mouth to ask her again. "There's jus' some things momma's gotta do, alright?"

Oh God, this is wrong. She kisses my forehead and I feel like I'm about to cry. "Mom, I-I don't get it. You're just staying at auntie's, right? Y-you're coming back, right? Right, mom?" I hear my own voice break and squeak from puberty and the tears I'm holding back. She smiles sadly at me and squeezes her eyes shut tight. I almost hear myself laugh as she walks over to the hall closet, which isn't really in the hall but a few feet from the couch and next to my parent's bedroom door. She'll be back Sunday, I know she will. She's going to grab a six-pack of Blue Ribbon, get in the car, talk shit about my dad with her sister, and be back after Sunday Mass. I look at the ground and sniffle. I feel her arms wrap around me, and something inside me makes me cling on to her so that my nails probably dig into her back. Eventually she let's go and I don't look behind me as I hear the door close quietly. The truck engine revs up and I hear her drive away until the sound fades to silence. I hate myself for being a pussy as I start crying on the filthy and stained rug. My sobs drown out the sound of swearing and things being kicked around outside. She'll be back, she always comes back. It's just how things are. I'm sure she'll come back.

It feels like forever until I stop crying. I wipe my nose and go to lean my back against the couch, wrapping my arms around my legs. I watch commercials for a while before the door explodes and Kevin comes in looking angry. He kicks open the door to mom and dad's room, and the hinges shake in protest. I cover my ears as Kevin's yelling fills the house. I don't want to hear yelling; I don't want to hear at all. Dad's gruff voice resonates through the living room, and I hear something crash to the floor. "FUCK!" I yell, and run up to my room to look at Kevin's magazines and get myself to ignore everything around me. Sunday's not far away, and then Kevin and dad will stop fighting. Kevin will show dad what's what, and then he'll come in and boast about dad's new shiner before socking me in the arm for looking at his Playboys, and it'll all be like usual.

The alarm clock on the bedroom floor hasn't advanced ten minutes before the bedroom door opens and Kevin pries the magazine from my hand, throwing it in the closet.

"Kev -"

"Shut _up_, Kenny!"

I jump back a little. Kevin's was clutching his right side in pain. I look over and almost gasp when I see his swollen left eye. "What happened?"

Kevin observes me, and his expression softens a little. "...dad hit me."

I stay quiet for a few seconds, taking in the information. "You hit him back, right?"

"No."

I cock my head to the side. "But... how? How'd he manage to hit you drunk? He never has aim when he drinks."

Kevin doesn't say anything for a while, and I'm about to repeat what I said before in case he didn't hear me before he speaks again. "He was sober, Kenny."

I look at Kevin's eye, then down at my shoes. I bring my knees up to my chest and bite my lip. Dad hit Kevin when he wasn't drunk. Dad never hits when he's sober. Especially us. He might take a swing or two at mom, but not Kevin or me. I place my hand on Kevin's shoulder, but he shrugs it away.

After a couple of minutes of awkwardness, my head is pounding and I feel like I have to get away from Kevin. Away from people. I run out of the room, through the hallway, passed mom's closed bedroom door and to the hall closet. I hesitate and rest my hand on the cold door handle for a second before prying the door open. My eyes roam the countless pieces of junk on every shelf and come to rest on an untouched six-pack of Blue Ribbon.


	3. Can of Worms

Now

Kyle: seventeen years old, senior year

00

I'm about to go back to my room before I hear the old, tired drone of the doorbell. We have _got_ to get that thing fixed. My parents probably forgot something before going out. Either that or they just decided that no, poor Kyle isn't capable of staying home alone after all. Then my mom'll nag and chastise me for God knows what that she can come up -

My chest tightens and I swear I feel my heart stop as my eyes wander over the soaking wet person in front of me. Slam the door. Slam the door in his face. Just close it and pop a Xanax or two and pretend you never saw a thing. My hands are shaking. Why the fuck can't I move?

"Hi, Kyle."

Why is he smiling at me? Oh God, what the fuck? I take deep breaths and try to stay calm. Why didn't I close the door? Now he's smiling at me, and I heard his voice and the room is spinning. I run to my bedroom and dry-swallow a Xanax, waiting a couple of minutes. I never closed the door, did I? I'm thinking a little more clearly now, and I can remember that Kenny was blushing pink, probably with the cold. His clothes were clinging to him and his hair was soaking wet. I look out the window and see that's it's hailing. Wait, he was out there in _this_ weather? What the hell is wrong with him? He must at least have guaranteed himself a cold by now, if not something worse. I pop another pill in my mouth, even though I know my mom would yell at me for it. I'll be needing as much Alprazolam as I can get in my system for this. Really though, the meds were her idea, so I can blame my dependency on her. Not that I _am_ dependent, though. My future and only slightly possible dependency, I mean. Deep breathing, Kyle. Take it easy.

It takes me a second before realizing I left the door open and that I won't see my eighteenth birthday if any rain gets in the house. I rush out to the living room and see that he closed the door, and now he's standing awkwardly dripping water and tracking mud onto the otherwise neat carpet.

I stare at his face and take in his appearance hungrily. I can't stop staring. Shit, you'd think I _wanted_ to look at him, but I don't - _I don't_.

His hair is shorter but more unkept. He's gotten a little taller, I think. Not by much, and he's still about as tall as me. His clothes are still ragged and he's shaking - shaking, cold, hail. All those are bad for a person. Right.

"I-I'll get you a towel. We-we have blankets in the hallway closet to - I'll...." After the words escape my mouth without my permission, I don't bother to finish the sentence and instead occupy myself with fetching towels and a big blanket. Why? No, don't think Kyle, just don't think. Towel. I'll get three, yeah. Where the fuck are the blankets? Found one. Oh, good, it's the big red one with the cows on it. Everyone likes random farm animals on blankets. Stupid asshole, out in a storm like this. God, you'd think he had more of a brain than that. Maybe he still hasn't gotten a grip on his apparent mortality yet. I mean, really. Not even a winter coat.

I go back to the living room and toss a towel over his head, ruffling it a bit in an attempt to get some moisture out of his hair. Stupid, stupid.

"What the _hell_ could you possibly be doing outside in this weather, Kenny?! You could catch a cold, pneumonia, hypothermia! Are you freaking retarded?" I scold him as I drape another towel over his shoulders.

It probably doesn't help him to have all those wet and cold clothes on him. I bend down to take off his shoes and toss them on the third towel on the floor. I shake my head and freeze when I feel cold hands entangle themselves with mine. His hands are _freezing_. I slowly look up to see Kenny's face inches from my own.

"You look cute when you're freaking out."

I blink and let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding in. Stupid. I slowly disentangle by hands from his. "...you're drunk," I say, without moving my gaze from his eyes. I don't like eye contact, he doesn't like eye contact. He's got blue eyes and they're enticing.

"A little."

I shake my head and scoff in a burlesque manner. I don't know what to do. I'm fucking confused, I'm - he just sneezed. Kenny sneezed, dammit.

I don't think. I just do, which I'm relieved for because me thinking in situations like this is never good. Just shut off my mind, or rather retreat into myself while I let my body do what it will. My hands work on his jeans zipper and button. I slip the pants off and throw them over his shoes. I move to undo the zipper on his hoodie and - fuck. He's kissing me.

_He's kissing me_.

I quickly pull away from him. My chest hurts. I'm calm, I am. Calm, logical me. I try not to look him in the eyes. His enticing blue eyes.

"Kenny, no, just...."

I don't manage to stop myself from looking at his face, and the expression of hurt makes my chest ache. Apathy, I should feel apathy because it's so much easier. God damn. I drape the heavy blanket over his lap and take a seat next to him on the couch. He's soaking up the couch seat. Fuck it, my mom can go to hell.

I watch him tracing the pattern of cows on the blanket with his fingers. Silence, two beats. "I'm only doing this because I don't want to have the death of a drunken bastard on my shoulders for leaving him outside in the rain. God knows you apparently still can't take care of yourself. If my parents weren't off for the weekend, you wouldn't be here," I say as I try to keep my voice steady. Wait. My parents aren't off for the weekend, they're just off for a couple of hours. Well, he doesn't know that. I hope the venom in my voice stops him from kissing me again. Why does he always do this to me? Why can't I _control_ what he does to me? I need that control, he can't take it away from me again.

Biting my lip, I turn to look at Kenny again. Just stop looking at him, damn you.

His stare is blank. I have no idea what he's thinking or feeling. It's confusing. No, it's fucking scary. Kenny's the most expressive person I know. Used to know? Shit. He frowns, looking sad and remorseful of... something. He looks like he wants to say something. I don't want to hear his voice anymore. My head is killing me, and I want nothing more than to down as many Advil as will quickly take this headache, the knots in my stomach, the aching in my chest away.

"I still love you. So much. Kyle I nee -"

No. _No_.

I shoot up from the couch, running one hand through my hair and the other over my face, resting it over my mouth as I shut my eyes tightly. I can feel my heart beating wildly in my chest.

"No, no, no, no, no! This isn't supposed to - this can't - oh my God," I mutter under my breath as I pace back and forth, probably looking like some sort of caged animal. I twist the fabric of my shirt in my hands, feeling my nails dig into my chest. My chest which is making it hard to breathe. I need another Xanax.

"Kyle... I'm sorry."

I shake my head, turning to face him and feeling myself shaking, sick to my stomach. Fuck him. Fuck this, I can't do this. Not now. I let loose, rage seeping from my every word.

"Then why the fuck did you come here?! Why the fuck did you tell me to go with you?! WHY THE FUCK DID YOU LET THEM FIND US!"

Man, I think the _neighbors_ heard that one. My throat burns. God, I'm so mad at him - at me. I should never have let him in. It's not fair, it's all not fair. I sniffle, and find that tears started streaming down my cheeks at some point. Great. I stare at the carpet, thinking. Why?

"Why the fuck did I ever love you...?"

It's out before I can stop it from reaching his ears. A beat, and I don't look up as he starts yelling back.

"What, and you think you're the only one who asks themselves that? You think it was easy for me, when you don't bother to speak to me for almost two years? When I don't see you for _months_ and then find out about you switching schools from _Cartman_ of all people? You bastard, you think I didn't love you? I loved you, you motherfucker! And this whole time, I've missed you so much I couldn't stand it! So don't you fucking talk about it as if you were the only one who went through hell during that time."

His words aren't registering in my head. I don't want to register them in my head. Apathy, ease the effect of his voice and his words. He's crying. Dammit, he's crying. Sobbing, almost. I finally look up when I hear a clicking sound and see him trying to light a wet cigarette. He finally lit up after a few tries, and putting the cigarette to his mouth seemed to choke back the sobs that had been quaking in his chest as he clicked the lighter. It's a distraction for the both of us.

"You can't smoke here, my parents will get pissed."

He looks at me for a second before my eyes water from the smoke blown towards me. I cough lightly. Okay, so he doesn't care whether he pisses off my parents or not. That's nothing new. The smoke smells so nice, I almost close my eyes to savor it. I shouldn't. I shouldn't because it's him and his smoke and his filthy cigarettes which have been his trademark smell since we were small that you can dig yourself into right at the crook of his neck. My head spins with the smell, it's excruciating.

After a few minutes, I realize I've been standing awkwardly thinking about his cigarette pack and what he smells like. What were we doing before we started yelling? Rain. Right. I take a seat on the couch again and go back to taking off his clothes, which aren't much drier than they were before we freaked out on each other. I slip his left arm out of the sleeve, and Kenny moves the cigarette to his left hand as I slip his right arm out of the sleeve. He has that frighteningly blank look on again. I don't like it, it's beginning to get suffocating.

Oh, he's definitely catching a cold. He had nothing on under his hoodie but a wife-beater. His arms have goosebumps from wearing his sopping wet jacket, I suppose. What the...?

Little cricles. There's little circular marks running up and down his arms. The both of them. My heart skips a beat, maybe two. They kind of look like...

I look from Kenny's face which is apparently trying to stare a hole through my lamp, to the cigarette in his hand. Oh, no way.

I don't spend any more time dwelling on the thought before I snatch the death stick from him. I put it out on the sole of my shoe and smash it down on the coffee table, making the tacky flower arrangement on it rattle on the glass surface. If I could glare a hole right through his skull, I would. He's pissed now. Good.

"Hey, what the hell, Kyle? I was fucking smoking that!" He sniffled from his previous little break-down. Whatever, I can't believe he's sunk this low.

"Oh, sorry. Should've left you to putting out cigarettes on your arms, huh?" I spit my words at him, hoping they convey my shock, anger, and hurt somehow. No, not hurt. I'm not hurt. I don't care about him. I don't. I grind my teeth angrily, observing his stuttering silence. At a loss for words, are we? Well, I'm not.

"So, have you really fallen apart that much since I haven't been around to babysit you? Or are you a professional ashtray now?" I run my fingers through his arms, feeling the rough yet smooth surfaces of the marks. There's some bigger ones, too. Not just from cigarettes. Shit, some of them are big enough to be from the car lighter. My fingers reach the rougher surface of a slash on his left arm. There's three. They could be cat scratches, but I wouldn't buy it if he said as much. If he can burn himself, it's not like he wouldn't cut himself. They're fascinating, but not in a way that captures pleasantry of any sort. They're filthy blemishes; sick coutures defiling his pale skin and marring him in memory's eye. God, why would you _do_ that? My hand gets shoved out of the way and Kenny wraps himself up in the red cow blanket tightly, covering everything but his head. He stands up and looks down at me. Fuck you, Kenny. I'm just as tall as you are. I stand up so that he's no longer towering over me. He grinds his teeth like I was doing just a few minutes ago, glaring holes in me. The same holes he's been glaring into me every time my mother patronizes me and reminds me that it's all his fault, yet all my fault too somehow. My ears ring.

"Oh, so now it was babysitting? I don't remember you calling it babysitting when you were_ screaming my name_, Kyle."

Dammit. I'm too angry to respond coherently. Too afraid, too lost, too _sick_. "F-fuck you!"

Kenny sneers, and I think I preferred the blank look on him, maybe. "Oh, opening old wounds am I? I don't need you to _babysit me_, Kyle. Besides, it looks like you're not such hot shit yourself. You practically hyperventilated when I rang the doorbell. Then again, you can't be too bad off -"

"SHUT UP!"

"- I mean, you're _obviously_ eating to your heart's content. Cartman would be proud."

...oh, he did _not_ just call me...

He clamps a hand over his mouth and his eyes widen.

Oh, he did. That's it. The next thing I know I'm pulling the blanket from him and pushing him outside to the slow, steady rain fall and shutting the door behind him, turning the lock. I let out a long breath and close my eyes. I open them again when I hear frantic pounding on the door.

"Kyle! Kyle, I'm sorry! Kyle, please let me in!"

"Fuck off, dickhead," I shoot at him venemously.

"No, you don't understand!"

"Oh, I think I do."

"No! Kyle, _I'm in my underwear_!!"

I blink. Oh. I look over at the clothes pile on the floor. Well.

"Sucks to be you." I walk away from the door and the knocking, and gather the pile of clothes in my arms, heading to the kitchen. Opening the top drawer and digging out what I need, I put everything inside a Wal-Mart bag and open the window. I hear the angry meow of a cat as the plastic bag makes accidental contact with the poor thing.

Good riddance.


	4. Pressure

_Some more info about POV's and time frames_: So we've seen both Kenny's and Kyle's perspectives in the last two Now chapters. I've always liked first person best because you can truly take on the voice of the character you're writing. You can really convey their mannerisms, personality, and thought process effectively - or at least more so than in third person. The narrative style of each character changes depending on the time frame, more so Kyle's than Kenny's. Because of that, Kyle will seem to think more in depth and logically before anything has happened (Then) than he will in any of few Now chapters where he'll be narrating (I'll say it now, Now will mostly be Kenny's thing, while Then will be roughly equal with slightly more of Kyle's POV).

Kenny and Kyle also have different maturity levels, particularly at the beginning, so their POV's will narrated differently even though they're the same age. I also think it's important to note that, just like everybody focuses more on either the past, present, or future, so do Kyle and Kenny. Kenny looks back a lot, while Kyle's got more of a present or future mindset, also affecting the narrating styles. Also, on character traits: Kenny is more of a perceptive kind of guy and thinks more within himself than anything, wheras Kyle's more to-the-point and delves on the obvious around him. That should be made obvious at this point. Any major questions that come up while reading a Then chapter will be answered in Now chapters. The information will keep adding up, little by little, and hopefully (or so I plan) will make as complete a story as if it had been narrated chronologically from beginning to end. I tend to write a lot when I write authors notes.

00

Then

Kyle: twelve years old, seventh grade

00

I hold the piece of paper in my shaking hands, my stomach twisting in knots as it had been since we got our report cards at school earlier today. I couldn't pay attention the whole of today because this piece of paper was the only thing on my mind. Christ, you'd think they could have waited until last period to hand out what would be to several kids a sure notice of future grounding. Me, though, I can't stop staring at that horrible letter to the right of "Science 7." I can hear Cartman and Kenny arguing in the background over Pepsi or something gay like that, but it's not really registering in my mind. As always, though, the argument escalates and delves into unrelated territory, and the rising voices are harder to ignore.

"At least my mom didn't walk out on me!"

"Shut the hell up, you fat fuck! At least my dad's not my mom!"

"Oh, yes Kenny. I'm _so_ jealous of your alcoholic dad. Please, take me in so I can savor the wonders of your family. Ow! That hurt, buttfucker!"

My ears are ringing with the noise of the two hitting each other and the bus driver yelling something in Spanish at them. Why do they always pull this shit? And why can't the day be over already? I squeeze my eyes shut, and then feel somebody touch my shoulder.

"Kyle, aren't you supposed to tell Cartman he's an asshole or something for talking about Kenny's mom?" I open my eyes and look at Stan, then look back at my report card. Stan frowns and looks worriedly at the white paper. "Dude, are you still on about that thing? So you failed a class, big deal. You'll be grounded for two weeks, tops."

I shake my head frantically and wave the paper in the air, as if it would make the magnitude of it clearer to him. Stan never gets this stuff. Yeah, since he's never failed a class in his life. Stupid Mr. B Average. "You don't understand, Stan. I've never failed a class. Ever since we started middle school, my grades are getting worse, I can't stop fighting with my parents, and my mom won't stop fucking nagging at me for every little thing I do wrong. I don't get half the things in my classes, I don't know what the fuck to do anymore. You remember last year when I got a C in math?" Stan nods his head. "I'd never seen my mom so pissed. She was going on about how disappointed she was for a month afterward. This isn't even a C, this is a freakin' D!"

Stan bit his lip in thought, glancing down at the report card again. He took it from me and folded it neatly in half, stuffing it in the front pocket of my backpack as if trying to force it out of my mind, force it into hiding somewhere. "You're not gonna fix anything my worrying this much about it. Your mom's probably just on the menopause or something. It'll get better, dude." I didn't believe him, and I'm sure my face shows it. He sighs and rolls his eyes, slinging his arm over my shoulder. "Hey, just tell your mom you're having trouble concentrating in class. Maybe she'll go easy on you."

I snort. Even if that _could_ work, I wouldn't tell my mom anything like that. She already threatened anger management on me, but telling her anything about the weird stuff I've been feeling lately would probably make her commit me or something.

"Hey! Look at Stan, he's got his arm wrapped around Kyle! Fags!"

"_Oyes, cabron! Te dije que te sentaras_!"

Stan retreats his arm just as the bus screeches to a halt and I, along with a handful of other people, hit the back of the seat in front. I glare at Cartman as I rub my aching cheek and see Stan pick himself off the floor. Mr. Martinez drags Cartman to the front by the scruff of the neck and pushes him out the door, taking off at ungodly speeds again seconds later. Laughter echoes through the bus and I see Kenny making faces out the emergency exit as Cartman tries running after the bus. Naturally, he's too fat and stops to catch his breath just short of a block after getting kicked out. "Serves him right." I hear Kenny say to Craig while snickering.

The whole Cartman fiasco keeps us entertained until the bus drops Stan, Kenny and I off. We say goodbye as Kenny and Stan go right while I go left. Eventually, the distance makes Kenny and Stan's excited chatter die off. I yawn and drag my feet at a slow pace, bumping every mailbox I pass with my hand and putting down the handle of all the ones that have it up just for the sake of doing something. Dammit, I'm so tired. It's barely three thirty and I could just drop dead in the snow. You'd think I was seventy or something. I seriously hate school. There's too much stuff to do, we get out too late, and my history teacher smells like tuna. Who's great idea was it to have public schooling that sucked so much ass? And what's up with the letter grades, man? I can't help but think about my failing grade again. Shit, what was I supposed to tell my parents? Maybe I could just not tell them and wait until they pick my report card up in the mail on Saturday. Wait, that'd probably make things worse, wouldn't it? God dammit, middle school sucks so bad. Maybe I could break it to them -

"Oomph!"

"Fucking Jew. My dead grandma walks faster than you." I hate Cartman so much. I really, really do. I spit out some snow that somehow ended up in my mouth and pick myself up off the ground. After so many years though, I suppose his asshole nature can't be helped. We've all just learned to deal with it as a sort of curse that is bestowed upon us until we manage to get the hell away from this backwards town. I mean, he kind of won't leave us alone anymore.

"I thought you were ditched eight blocks back. How the hell did your fat ass get here so fast?"

"That's how slow you were walking. And don't call me fat, fucker."

I roll my eyes, dust the snow off my pants and keep walking, wincing slightly at what feels like a bruise forming where Cartman's elbow dug into me when he inexplicably tackled me. "Ugh, whatever. Just get the hell away from me."

"Ooh, PMSing Jew, have we? Still crying over your stupid grades?"

"Dammit Cartman, haven't you pissed off enough people today?!" I shoot at him, thankful we're almost at my house so I can ditch the fatass.

"What's wrong, Kahl? Gonna go have a little break-down in the handicap stall again?"

I stop walking and my eyes widen. Is it getting hard to breathe or something? "I-I don't know what you're talking about, f-fatass."

"Yeah right, Kahl. I heard you in the bathroom the other day during third period. At first I thought you were jacking off, but then I saw you freaking out on the floor and you couldn't even remember how to breathe. It was so fucking funny, Kahl. I thought you were gonna die."

I unfreeze and run towards him, tackling him to the snow and grabbing him by the scruff of the neck. "You fat fucking bastard, you've no idea what you saw!" I scream at him, narrowing my eyes. "Wait a second... why were you looking in the stall when you thought I was jacking off?" Before he could wipe that deer-in-the-headlights look off his face and give an answer, I hear my front door open. Ike is standing there and pointing behind him, making odd facial expressions. Awesome, I'm in trouble before I even get in. There's a chance that this could be bad enough to soften the report card blow, but it's a long-shot. If I'd done something _really_ bad lately, I'd probably remember. I feel Ike pat me on the arm before he climbs the stairs and sits at the top of them, waiting to see how the whole thing will play out. Nosy little bastard.

My heart starts hammering in my chest when I hear footsteps behind me. I turn around and see my mom standing there with a frown on her face. Great, it's going to be a long one. I sit down shakily on the couch and wait for her to chew me out. "Kyle, I got an interesting call from Ms. Foster, today." The school counselor? The vice principal usually calls our parents when we pull shit. Unless... no, Cartman can't have told. Right? He would wait until seeing me completely paranoid over it before telling. Oh, fuck, I'm about to go into cardiac arrest or something. "She says you've got an interesting report card to show us this quarter." Hold on, the counselor handles the grades? Thank _God_. I'd rather argue failing science and barely passing math than I would explaining anything else that might reach Ms. Foster's oversized ears.

I laugh nervously and dig my report card out of my backpack. "Uh, yeah. Interesting is one way to put it," I choke out as I hold out the piece of paper. She takes it and looks it over, not really looking surprised. They must've told her everything that was on that thing. I don't know whether or not I'm relieved that I don't have to tell her myself. Before I can say anything else, she takes a seat to my left, my grades still in her hand, and looks at me accusingly before continuing.

"She says you haven't been paying attention in class. Your teachers have complained. Ms. Foster called because she's surprised that you've fallen behind so much, given your elementary school records. I can't say I haven't been just as surprised as her. Do you mind telling me what's so important that you couldn't keep your mind on your studies, Kyle?"

"Mom, I've been -"

"Maybe you've been hanging out with your friends too much, Kyle? You need to concentrate on your studies -"

"I haven't hung out with the guys in, like, two weeks mom. I've been trying to catch up on my school stuff, I swear -"

"Don't interrupt me Kyle! And why do you need to _catch up_ in the first -"

"You interrupt _me_, why the hell can't I interrupt you?!" I yell indignantly. I'm so tired of her hypocrisy. Why won't she ever let me get a fucking word in?

"Don't use that tone with me, Kyle! Now, you're grounded for two weeks! Use that time to sit down with some books and study. Think about your future for once. Your bad habits aren't going to get you anywhere." I dig the nails of my right hand into my left wrist, clawing at it and squeezing it in an attempt to not scream my head off.

"I've been studying, mom! I'm trying, I swear! I can't fucking try any harder!" Deeper. Don't scream, don't yell. Try and breathe. My head hurts so bad right now. I'm so tired, I just want to lie in bed. I want to be alone.

"Watch your language, Kyle! Just you wait until your father hears about this! You used to be such a good boy, what the heck has happened to you?"

Bite your lip, just try to calm down. Swallow the lump in your throat, don't lose your head. "Yeah, yeah, I know I've been fu - messing up. I'm sorry, okay! But you've got to believe me, I'm trying! You're being unfair, it's like you're not even listening to me!"

"How am I being unfair, Kyle?! You got a D in science, a C in math, and the only A's you get anymore are in Language Arts. You used to barely get any B's, and I find it hard to believe you're honestly trying the way this looks!"

Shut up, shut up, shut _up_. "Dammit, mom, why won't you just believe me? You're not listening to me, you never do! _I really am trying_ -"

"No, Kyle. I know you, and I know that this is not you."

"WELL, MAYBE YOU DON'T KNOW ME AT ALL!" She looks taken aback by the loudness of my voice, Honestly, I am too. I'm so fucking mad right now, though. And apparently yelling is the only way to get her to shut up and actually listen to me. I stand up and hope to God I'm not crying from the sheer frustration. I'm unsteady on my feet and can feel myself shaking. I don't want to argue anymore. "JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!!" My throat stings and with that, I fling my backpack over my shoulder and stomp up the stairs, ignoring Ike as he calls out my name. I carelessly throw my backpack on the floor, slam the door and lock it. My breathing is harsh and labored. My chest hurts so bad right now. I look down at my aching wrist and notice I accidentally dug my nails in too much. I roll my sleeve up and press at the red punctures with my thumb.

I hate her so fucking much. She is such a _bitch_. I can't believe she's not up here right now, trying to tear my door down or something. It's all her fault, everything's her fault. No, that's not true; if it wasn't for me fucking up, I probably wouldn't be in this mess all the time. I can't even do anything anymore. I choke back a sob and wipe the angry tears violently off my cheeks. I clutch my stomach and slide down the door to the floor, bringing my knees up to my chest. I hate school, I hate my parents, I hate Cartman. I hate everything.

I take a sharp, gasping breath and clutch my stomach harder, my hands shaking and trembling. I can't control my temper, the trembling, nothing. I'm trying as hard as I can to keep my cool, but I can't - can't even breathe anymore. I feel like I'm - like I'm dying or something. Fuck, I can't do this anymore. It- it's too much, I want it all to stop. I hate these freak episodes, too.


	5. Thin Line

Then

Boys: thirteen to fourteen years old, eighth grade

Kevin: sixteen years old, Sophomore year

00

My back hits the bed with a thump and I give a satisfied sigh, tossing the November issue of Penthouse into a corner somewhere. I'm not sure where it lands, but it's not like it matters. My room is filthy already. There's nobody here to clean up after her babies, and I can't be bothered to clean up after myself. Somebody will just wander in at two in the morning and puke up all over my floor. I'll throw some towels on the stain, then some more towels and clothes. Then Kevin will leave his cigarette butts on my nightstand and Cartman will chuck his empty beer cans everywhere when he's over and drinks himself stupid. In other words, I don't see the point or logic in cleaning up because it would just wear me out. I'll just get my porn stash out of view when dad comes home.

After my heartbeat slows a little, I stuff my junk back in my pants and zip them up. I stare at the ceiling for a minute or two more before craning my neck to look at the clock on my nightstand. Four thirty. Fuck, I'm late. The guys are gonna kill me. Or at least Stan and Kyle will, since I really don't think Cartman cares either way. Funny, how Cartman managed to be in all the smart classes at school. There're the stupid classes and the smart classes, and he's definitely not on our level. If he actually tried, he probably would be, though. It's sad that he's doing better than Kyle, but I guess that's the benefit of your mom sleeping with the principal.

I grab all the papers from my backpack and try to figure out heads or tails from the pile. My science shit has to be here somewhere, probably at the end. I hate to feed the poor-person stereotype, but I'm really not organized with my school shit. Aha! It's a little wrinkled, but I don't have to hand it in or anything. It's all good. Oh, fuck, I didn't even finish it. I hurriedly scribble in the answers I'm missing that I actually know and rush to stuff everything in my backpack.

I hear the front door slam and freeze, grabbing a couple of magazines off the floor and haphazardly tossing them into my closet. I swing my backpack over my shoulder and peek into the hallway. Oh, it's just Kevin. I give a sigh and stop to stand awkwardly in the middle of the living room. Kevin drops his keys on the broken coffee table and collapses on the couch, turning on the TV to whatever's playing on Fox. He lights a cigarette and slouches down on the couch.

He looks really tired. There's silence, as usual. He doesn't say much anymore. With Kevin, it's become just his television, his cigarettes, his stoner friends, and his fights with dad. I really think I should leave, but I have to ask. I just do. "Where's dad?"

"Work."

I nod, even though he's not looking at me. I open and close my mouth a few times before I decide to just go ahead and ask. "Did she call?" A few long seconds go by and he doesn't answer or look at me. He puts the cigarette to his lips and blows out smoke towards the TV.

"My birthday was yesterday, moron."

I look down and run my fingers through my messy hair. "It could just be a late birthday call. People do that some-"

"She hasn't called since she left, why the fuck do you thing she would call for this?!" I wince as he screams. "She didn't even call on your birthday, and she always liked you best!"

"That's not true!" I scream back, gritting my teeth in anger.

"Like hell it's not! Just forget about her! God, it's gonna fuck you up and you don't even realize it!"

I barely contain my urge to punch his lights out. Instead, I slam the door as hard as I can on the way out.

I blink at my reflection in the mirror. There are still bags under my eyes. I suppose I didn't get much sleep last night, since I had to stay up finishing my side of the science project the guys and I are going to work on today. And the one we're forced to finish today, since I'm grounded for talking back and Cartman's grounded for some sort of hate crime fiasco at the Denver Sea Park. Today's the only day we could all get together without my mom going psycho. It's not like she's happy about it, though. I think she fucking called Stan's mom to tell her I'm grounded. I wouldn't put it past her to call me at Stan's house sixteen times to make sure I'm not doing anything "recreational." God does this suck major ass.

I grab my beanie hat off my dresser and put it on, trying to shove as many curls as I can under the thing. It's just not as big as my old ushanka, so most of my hair ends up sticking out everywhere. Funny hats in middle school are just gay, though. I sigh and frown at my reflection. There's just something -

"Kyle! You're going to be late! You told Stan you'd be over by four thirty, so you should really be over by four thirty!" I wince as my mom screams from downstairs. I really wish people would just come up to tell me things. Yelling from one end of the house is just obnoxious. I grab my backpack, take one last look in the mirror, and head downstairs.

I smell food from the kitchen and feel nauseous at the thought. If I eat anything, I'll probably blow chunks everywhere. Ugh. I try to put my shoes on as quietly and as quickly as possible. Alright, almost out, just –

"Kyle, I made you some lunch before you leave. If you eat quickly you can get there by four thirty."

God dammit.

"I'm not hungry, mom," I say as I grab the door handle. She grabs my arm and starts to pull me towards the kitchen.

"Oh, nonsense. You won't be home until late, and I don't want you skipping lunch again."

I yank my arm back and start to head towards the door again. "I'll just eat when I get home."

"The lunches they serve at school can hardly be called a meal. I really want you to eat something, bubby. That's a lot of hours to go without food and you know we don't have dinner until late."

I roll my eyes and pull the door open. "Because apparently being ridiculously Jewish isn't abnormal enough, we have to eat like fucking Spaniards too," I mutter under my breath.

"What what _what_?!" And that's all I hear before I slamming the door behind me and drowning out my mom's ranting. I sling my backpack over my shoulder and start walking towards Stan's house. I'm about half an hour early, but that's just for the better. We can have more time to work on the project.

My stomach growls. It's empty, but I can't bring myself to care.

It's just about five when I get to Stan's house. I guess I wasted a lot of time at home, since it can't have taken me half an hour to walk next door since the last time I looked at the time. It was sort of a slow walk, though, since I waited a bit to cool down from the Kevin thing at home.

Mrs. Marsh wrinkles her nose in distaste when she opens the door. That's the usual greeting from my friends' parents whenever they smell the smoke on me from Kevin's and dad's cigs. I try not to roll my eyes as I put on some sort of smile. "Hey, Mrs. Marsh! I'm here to work on our science project."

She finally smiles back at me and opens the door to let me in. "Oh, hi Kenny. The boys are up in Stan's room."

"Thanks."

I climb the stairs two at a time and open the door. Stan's lying on his stomach on the bed and picking at his nails, Cartman's got his back against the bed and is chewing on some gum obnoxiously loudly, and Kyle's sitting on the floor with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. I toss my backpack on the bed and ignore Cartman's protests when I almost hit him.

"Hey guys, sorry I'm late."

"Well, good fucking evening, Kenny! Nice of you to show up!"

I jump back slightly as Kyle spits his words out at me with a glare on his face. I blink and look to my left, raising an eyebrow and silently asking Stan what the fuck's up with Kyle.

"He's been acting like a little bitch since he got here. His Jew mom is on the loose again and Captain Jewberry here apparently got his panties in a bunch," Cartman explains in his usual crude manner. I… I think Kyle just growled. His face is as red as the hair under his hat as he digs his nails into his jeans and glares at Cartman. Cliché as it might be, if looks could kill then Kyle would be a serial killer. That kid's scary when he's mad. I'm sure Cartman would beg to differ, though, since he apparently finds it hilarious. In fact, he's smiling wickedly right now. I look back and forth between the two as I dig out my tattered science sheets.

There's the growling again. Okay, I'm pretty sure Kyle's about to jump Cartman. I glance at Stan and bite my lip, nodding my head at the two. He rolls his eyes but places a hand on Kyle's shoulder. "Dude, calm down. We've still got the project to do, remember? Everyone's here now."

That seems to get Kyle to snap out of it, and he starts gathering everything into little piles. I swear he's got to be OCD or something. He holds out his hand and I stare at it, confused. Great, now he's glaring at me. What the hell does he – oh yeah. I dig my papers out of my backpack and hand him my science crap. His eyes roam over the page, until they stop and he frowns. Kyle's going to have a lot of wrinkles when he's older, I think.

"Kenny… what the hell is this?"

Uh-oh. "Uh, my research for the project?"

"You've got a whole paragraph about incest."

Oh, yeah. I forgot about that. "Well, I thought –"

"What the hell does incest have to do with anything?!"

Yep, he's fuming now. There's the hair simile again. "Dude, it's genetics. Incest has to be involved somehow or else people would still be fucking their sisters."

"But it's not –"

"Kahl, Kenny obviously knows what he's talking about," Cartman chimes in and I raise an eyebrow. "I mean, look at his hick family. At least a quarter of it must be the result of incest-derived mutations."

"Cartman, shut your fat –"

"Oh, don't talk to me about incest, man. Last Thanksgiving, your lesbo cousins were getting it _on_ in your grandparents' bedroom." Fucking fatass, talking shit about my family. Everyone saw that, too. He can't get out of it.

"I have to leave in –"

"Th-they were really distant cousins!"

I gape at him. "They were _identical_!"

"Guys, we have to fucking get to work on –"

"You guys, I think Ned has a twin or something," Stan says while trying to hold back laughter.

"Shut the _fuck_ up!"

"Stan, nobody wants to hear about your gay uncle and his twincestual butt buddy."

I snort at that, and laugh out loud when I get a look at Stan's face.

"Dammit, I told you that Uncle Jimbo's not gay, fatass!"

"Sorry man, but your uncle's really fucking gay," I pitch in.

"FUCK!"

Stan stops short of whatever he was going to retaliate with and we all turn our heads to look at Kyle. He's tugging at his hair and biting his lip hard. You can hear his breathing, suddenly loud and labored. I think he's shaking, too. I'm sure I look as surprised as Stan does right now, and Cartman is looking at Kyle through narrowed eyes. The fuck…

"Igottago," he says in a rush, and our eyes follow him until we hear the bathroom door close across the hall, followed by the sound of the water running from the sink. I blink and look down at the poster board Kyle had neatly laid out in the center of the room.

I think a full two minutes go by in silence save for the running water. What the hell is going on? It's impossible for me _not_ to worry about this, right? I mean, he – I – we –

"Someone should go after him," I say without being aware of having thought it. Stan turns to look at me, then suddenly grabs a blue marker and starts writing down his research bit on the poster board.

"No," he says simply, and I scowl at him. He sees my expression and shakes his head. "It's Kyle. You know how he is. He doesn't like anybody telling him anything, or else he gets pissed off. He's got a lot of shit going on that we don't know about because he doesn't _want _us to know about it. It's better to just let him deal with it on his own." I shake my head frantically in disagreement, and turn to look at Cartman. He's not spouting the expected insensitive comments; he just looks lost in his head, somewhere. I look between Stan, Cartman, and the door across the hall.

"Hey, pass me the black." I grab the black marker from the pack and toss it to Stan as I get up.

"I'm gonna go see what's wrong."

Stan shrugs. "Suit yourself, dude. But I _really_ wouldn't." I ignore him and make my way to the door.

"Kenny."

I look back when I hear my name and see Cartman staring right at me with a weird look on his face. We stare at each other for a while before I ask "What?"

He holds my gaze a little longer before he shrugs and starts loudly chewing his gum and blowing bubbles, earning a dirty look from Stan. I exit the room and close the door behind me, leaning against the door and wondering what I should do.

Cartman and Kyle have an… interesting relationship, I suppose you could say. Complicated, really complicated. Ironically enough, out of all of us, Cartman's probably the best one at reading Kyle's capricious mood swings. Whenever he's pissed off, Cartman will be sure to tease him as much as possible for his own sick amusement. When he's in one of those weird apathetic moods, Cartman will be the only one out of us who can tell and is quick to make some sort of crude comment that'll get him to show emotion; Cartman can make some fucked up zombie-Jew jokes whenever Kyle's acting off. When he's completely on edge, Cartman's the first to distract him with something completely unrelated and literally make Kyle forget all about whatever's got him freaking out at the time, something Stan and I can never manage for some reason. If I wasn't completely sure that Cartman hated Kyle with a passion, I'd say he did a lot of the things he does on purpose.

Especially now that Kyle's like some pubescent chick on her period half the time, Stan and I have had to be especially careful whenever Kyle's in a "mood." Cartman, though, he doesn't bother with that. In fact, he's upped the teasing since we entered middle school. Huh, I don't think I'd noticed it too much before, but Cartman's really changed since we started middle school. He's gotten so much quieter. Still obnoxious and he still pulls some completely retarded things from time to time, but it's really not the same as it was when we were in elementary. A little more introverted, maybe.

Stan's been a lot more cautious around Kyle since we started middle school. They've always been Super Best Friends, don't get me wrong, but it's obvious that they don't share everything like they used to. I remember how much the two would fight during sixth and seventh grade. At some point, I'm guessing Kyle told Stan to just let him be and had some sort of talk with him because Stan's been warning us to let him work things out himself for a while now.

I don't think I've changed much. Kevin always tells me I have, but he has as well so I'm not sure what to believe. I suppose I've matured a lot since my mom left, but I'm definitely still behind the guys. I've always been the "mature" one, but that's only because I've always been savvy when it comes to sex and drugs. There's a big difference between knowing a lot about that kind of stuff and being able to see the world as it is. I'm just a horny kid, but I still don't notice some of the black areas in the world that everybody else seems to see. I know I've become less shy, though. I used to always have my hood up when I was a kid. I didn't say a lot, and I kind of lived in a world of my own. I started middle school, and I started losing a little shyness. When my mom left a year later and didn't call on my birthday, I started to get some real confidence. I think I'm outgoing enough, nowadays.

Kyle, though, he's changed the most out of all of us. Maybe it's the whole puberty thing, I don't know. He's always worrying about everything like it's the end of the world. He's so self-conscious and can't go a day without being frustrated to near-tears. Apparently he's always in some sort of row with his parents, and we always have to drag him out by force to get him to chill on a weekend. I know that Kyle's always had a short fuse and has always worried about stuff like his grades. He's always taken things as his to solve and always questioned things too much for his own good. Maybe that's how he's developed the amazing ability to freak out over things I didn't know you could freak out about.

Kyle…

I cross the hall and my curled fist hovers over the door for a second. The water is still running. How long have I been in the hall? How long has he been in there? I knock on the door three times and call out his name. No answer. "Kyle? You okay in there?" No answer. Fine. "Kyle, I'm coming in." I twist the doorknob and make my way in, thanking God for Stan's parents never bothering to fix the lock. "Ow! Kyle, why'd you…"

"Get –get _out_."

The shampoo bottle he chucked at me is spilling all over the floor, but I can't be bothered by that. He looks really bad. God, he's shaking so much. The bathroom's so hot, though. "Kyle…? Kyle, what's wrong, dude?" I get down on my knees and put my hands on his shoulders. He's got his arms wrapped around his knees and he's rocking back and forth. Fuck. "Kyle, did you – did you take something? Kyle, talk to me, man."

He shakes his head frantically and tries to push me away with shaking hands. "L-leave me alone."

_It's better to just let him deal with it on his own._

"No," I say and sit next to him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. I couldn't care less if it looks gay. "No, Kyle. I'm staying the fuck right here. Even if you won't talk to me. I'm fucking worried about you, and there's nothing you can do to make me go away, okay?" I hate how that came out like a question. I'm determined to be here right now, even if Stan's too much of a prick to be there for his best friend. His rocking motions cause me to rock along with him, and I'm sure we'd both be institutionalized if anybody came in here right now.

"Kenny, _please_," he pleads, his voice muffled by his arms.

"No."

He makes a strange choking sound, and I rebelliously squeeze my arms tighter around him. A second later, his shaking fingers grab my arm in a vice grip. He leans into me and I feel my chest ache when I hear him break down.


	6. Stability

I bet y'all forgot all about me, right? Or you surely believed I was lying very, very still in a ditch somewhere. See, what'd I tell you about updates? No set time here, but I'm seriously not abandoning this. I _am _sorry, though. It was totally my bad to let… what, five or six months pass? Anyways, onto other matters.

So I changed the summary of the story. Wasn't a fan of the old one, but I'm not a fan of the new one either. Still, a slight improvement I think. Oh, and we have our first present Kenny bit since the prologue.

ONE LAST NOTE: If you want to know the immediate status of a chapter, or want to know if it's close to ever seeing the light of day, I'll be posting on my profile. Just a small update on it every now and then. Or should I say - every then and now? *is shot*

00

Now

00

"Kenny? Kenny."

I hear a voice far away, and I groan and turn on my side, towards the voice.

"Kenny, sweetie, wake up. I'll be late for work," it said. A nice, soothing female voice. It makes me want to never get up from bed. I dig my face into my pillow and mumble something that I'm sure aren't actual words. I try to open my eyes, but as soon as I do they burn and I close them again. Whoever's the chick that was speaking starts to shake me, and I finally open my eyes a bit, squinting through the burning from sleep-deprivation to find out where the fuck I am. It sure as hell doesn't smell like my house. I look up to see brown hair framing a familiar face above me, as well as a familiar set of tits.

"Tammy? Mm, what are you doing here?"

"I _live_ here.

I finally open my eyes all the way and rub them lethargically. The couch isn't missing any legs, and the blankets I'm wrapped up in are actually nice. I've still got all my clothes on, and I'm on the couch, so I obviously didn't sleep with anyone. Oh. _Oh. _Oh, fuck.

"Please tell me the reason I'm here is because I slept with you."

She rolls her eyes. "You wish, hun'. You showed up last night, naked and crying your heart out about Santa Fe."

I cringe, both at the information and the mild headache that I'm starting to get. "I was in my underwear, don't exaggerate," I say, sitting up on the couch and stretching my arms above me. Her eyes seem to roam over me and she frowns. I raise an eyebrow. "You sure we didn't sleep together?"

"Yes," she says harshly, her eyes narrowing.

I smirk at her expression, obvious that she's beginning to get irritated. "Want to?"

"God, Kenny! The only reason I let you stay the night is because Richard's visiting his sister in Chicago. Seriously, I have to get to work. Get up and get the fuck out of my house."

I pout, standing and leaving the warm comfort of the blankets I was cocooned in. "You're no fun."

"I'm not in high school anymore. Real life tends to do that to a person." She hands me some jeans and a sweater. "Come on, put these on. You can't keep them, though. I'll drop you off and you can get changed into your own clothes."

I take the clothes and nod, watching her ass as she walks out. She leaves the door open, probably as a silent way of telling me to hurry the hell up. As I start to slip on the jeans, a few sizes too big, the highlights of last night start to come back to me. Shit, I'm never drinking again. All of this happened because I went to Craig's stupid party. If I had just gone somewhere else for the night, I wouldn't have kept seeing him everywhere through my stupid alcoholic haze, and I wouldn't have wandered over to his house.

These must be Richard's clothes, since they're all big as hell. Obviously, Tammy would want them back. I throw the sweater over my head, pulling up the sleeves so that I can actually see my hands. I glare when I catch a glimpse of a white line. I always wonder whether people actually notice. It could just be that I _know_ they're there, so it automatically seems like other people know as well. I roll up the sleeve a bit more, glancing at the ugly marks and swollen circles adorning it. I pick angrily at a scab near the crook of my arm. Tammy's probably grossed out as hell. God, it's all so stupid. I'm such a fucking pussy. It all seems so childish when you're looking at the leftovers. It's always a heat of the -

"AAH!"

Oh, car horn. Tammy, work, right. I really shouldn't be this easily startled, I don't think. I break into a run and slam the door behind me with a satisfyingly loud bang.

00

"It doesn't get better, really. That's just what they'll have you believe."

He takes a hit, I follow his lead. He holds it for a while before he exhales and continues his little speech in his not-so-thick accent. Nothing I've never heard before.

"After high school, it's all just peaches and college and oh-so-different." I exhale when I feel myself grow lightheaded, coughing twice afterwards. "You just become a slave, though. A machine. To the corporate world, the myth of education and how there's so much more left to learn. It's all codswallop. Now this - _this _is downright wonderful. Lovely." He takes a hit for emphasis. I follow his lead again. Like a machine. How ironic.

I try to hold it as long as I can again before exhaling. He watches me the whole time, as usual. His eyes are the same shape as Kyle's, deep-set and searching. "But… _isn't_ there more left to learn, Pip?"

He cocks an eyebrow, ignores the joint held between his fingers while he looks at me as if he's never seen me before in his life. "I'm afraid you're going to have to be clearer than that."

I lick my lips, raise the joint to my lips, hesitate, then leave it dangling from my limp fingers instead. "Well, high school - it's just our chance to make all these mistakes. To fuck up as many times as we possibly can. We fall, and fall, and see if we can't get up. I mean, we've got to learn how to break the cycle, right? Just kind of get, I don't know, some sort of stability. Maybe." I blink into the silence, then take a hit that leaves me absolutely breathless. I exhale with a sick pleasure.

Pip looks at me, then laughs. And laughs. Giggling like a fucking schoolgirl. He slides over towards me and claps me on the shoulder, still laughing. "K-Kenny. Stability? Shit, have you got a broad who's tied you down already?" He takes a deep breath, choking on his own tongue which just keeps on going, talking too much, filling up what otherwise would be wonderful silence tinged with a swimming panorama. "Lighten up, Kenny, old chap! Else I'll have to take that away from you." He points to the joint in my hand. "You don't want to end up like a pig working for the state, right? With your white-picket fence? No, Kenny. I know you. You're no pig." I keep on scowling. He _knows_ me?

He wraps his arm around me in a chummy manner. I feel like shit. "You see, Ken, when you've got a choice, _always_ pick ganja," he says with this smile on his face as he keeps laughing. It makes me want to fucking sock him in the jaw.

I laugh along with him, instead.

00

I hear smashing the second I cross the train tracks, clearly coming from the decrepit shack I live in. I push the lockless door open a crack, checking to see if the coast is clear. It's coming from Kevin's room, along with a steady string of curses. Damn, he's really thrashing his room in there. Fuck him and his temperamental breakdowns, his tantrums. Fuck this house, as a matter of fact.

I storm into my room as quickly as I can, collapsing against the wall and sliding down until I'm sitting on the moldy carpet. I don't even feel high anymore, I just - I really need something. I look around and eye the cigarettes on my bed, but I don't move towards them.

The glass smashing down the hall is giving me one hell of a headache.

I hate Pip. I hate his fucking weed and how he's so keen to give it to someone, anyone, as long as they hear his stoner ramblings. Anarchy? He doesn't know what he's fucking talking about. He just wants an excuse to keep avoiding responsibilities and keep cutting classes and keep getting high. Shit, you'd think the kid would've turned out different, the way he used to dress and act, but the only thing that's stayed the same about him is the fact that he doesn't have any real friends. Fucking dead-beat.

Still, you can't turn down free Mary Jane. And in all honesty, I'm no better. What responsibilities do I take on, right?

Something heavy breaks against Kevin's wall, as if to emphasize my last thought.

Last night, though… I remember it more clearly than I'd like to. _Fuck_, I actually went to his house. I was doing so well, yet somehow…

Yeah, right. Doing so very well, as he reminded me. I push my sleeve up. I glare.

He kissed me. I kissed him, and he actually kissed me back. He didn't even kick me out! Well, he did, but he didn't slam the door in my face when I showed up. You would think, right? I can't say I haven't fantasized about seeing him again. About kissing him, touching him, breathing him in. I wonder if - no. I don't want to think about him. I don't want to think at all.

"_Fuck!_" a hoarse, raspy voice screams and then, finally, silence in the house. I wonder what Kevin would do, what anybody would do, if I just screamed. At the top of my lungs, screamed like I never do.

Kyle never screamed back. I remember screaming at him, maybe twice, yet he never screamed back. I almost always screamed back when he'd break down. It would make him calm down, snap him back into reality and he'd lean into me and I'd catch him.

My eyes sting. I clutch my blond hair as hard as I can.

God, it hurts. I miss him so fucking much. It's not - I don't - I've been... God, I just - I need him. My chest hurts the way it always does but that I never acknowledge. Right now, though, with my eyes closed, it hurts so much more. I can feel him with me. His too-thin shoulder blades against my own bony hands, his thick red curls, his chapped lips, the taste and the smell of toothpaste and coffee that hits me as soon as we pull each other in.

And I had it all last night, and forgetting about it isn't fucking possible anymore. I kissed him and goddamnit, _he kissed me back_.

I never should have believed him.

I don't anymore. I don't care anymore, about his psychotic parents or his fucked up attitude. He is mine and no one else's, and I'm doing something about this. I have a promise to re-instate. Ganja be damned.

00

"Another D, McCormick." The teacher slams the paper on my desk, red ink glaring at me and mocking my time spent on the dumb thing. "I asked for the significance of the quotes, not for a rant on Hamlet's martyrdom. I have a feeling you were well aware of the instructions." I shrug and grab the test, stuffing it unceremoniously into my backpack when I see her walk away. See, she'd have given me - _should've_ given me - an F. Except that she likes what I write. She won't admit it though. I'm not exactly sure why I didn't answer her stupid questions anyways, other than they weren't what I had in my mind at the time.

"Jesus, Kenny. Suicidal, much? This is sick," says a certain obnoxious voice next to me. I practically fly out of my desk and slam into the edge of his own desk, snatching the paper back before he catches his own breath. Luckily, his fat cushioned the impact. For me, at least.

"Yeah, says the one who has to see a head doctor once a week," I snap back venomously and ignore his murderous look.

"Hey, let me see that." I look at Stan, hesitate a bit, then hand him my paper. His dark blue eyes move left and right as he speed-reads through the page.

"Ay! How come you let the hippeh read -"

"This is good," Stan says and hands the test back to me, which I quickly stuff into my backpack again. "It reminds me of Wendy's essay. She wrote it about the same thing, and won second place for some scholarship. She asked me to read through it for her."

We both choose to ignore Cartman in the background, and I clutch my backpack protectively to my chest. Wendy? Haven't seen her in a while. "You still talk to Wendy, dude?"

"Yeah, dude, she's my girlfriend! We're actually getting along great, somehow, even though she's going to Middle Park."

Probably because they're not suffocating each other with clingy affection through the day anymore, but I won't say that out loud.

"I'm actually going there after-school. She's doing a violin thing and wants me to come," he says, with a look on his face that clearly says he'd rather do anything than go to some gay little orchestra concerto. The bell rings at that moment, and the class scrambles towards the door like they're in any actual hurry. I follow.

"Oomph! Cartman, you fucker!" I rub my ribs from the impact against the doorframe as Cartman runs off cackling like a maniac. Psycho, I swear.

Middle Park High School? I didn't know Wendy went there. Probably because they've got more classes, and the teachers aren't such rednecks there. I stop walking and run a hand through my hair, watching Stan take some things out of his locker. Middle Park High School. I think - no, I'm sure that Kyle goes there. Kyle goes there…

"Stan! Stan, wait up!" The words are out of my mouth before I can even finish my thoughts, before I can give them permission to be voiced. I run to the end of the hall to catch up with him as he turns around.

"What's up?"

"Can I come with you? To Middle Park?" I ask, wincing inwardly at how desperate I sounded when I said it. Stan looks at me curiously.

"Why?"

I open my mouth and struggle to come up with a response. I probably look like a retarded fish, opening and closing my mouth like this. But I obviously can't tell him -

He holds up a hand. "Never mind." A look of comprehension on his face, then of resignation. "We're - we're gonna be late. Just… don't do anything stupid, okay?" I nod frantically and follow him to the parking lot.

The ride takes about a half hour; a long time for the townies in Park County. The whole time, I'm wondering why Stan would indulge me in this if he suspects the reason I'm coming here. I know for a fact that he still talks to Kyle all the time.

As soon as we step foot inside the vacant halls of the school, Wendy runs up to Stan with this huge freaking smile and practically superglues herself to Stan's chest and mouth. To say the least, it takes an awkward while until Wendy notices me staring at the not-so-intricate floor tiles like I'm not watching my best friend and his girlfriend sucking all kinds of face. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for voyeurism. There's just something about watching a scene as cavity-inducing as Wendy and Stan that makes it feel like inappropriate intrusion.

"Kenny! What are you doing here?"

"What, I don't get a kiss?" I joke, watching her debate between outrage and amusement. She decides on the latter, and gives me a hug like girls do when they see you on the first day of school after summer break. "I haven't seen you in forever! What are you doing here?"

I glance quickly at Stan, and act as nonchalant as I can. "Stan told me about your concert tonight, and I'm always up for a little Boticelli."

She raises an eyebrow and giggles, and I quickly crane my neck towards the main hallway, searching. "Boticelli was a painter, Kenny."

I force myself to laugh along. "Painter, musician, he was still Italian wasn't he?"

She laughs again and smiles with her stunningly white, slightly crooked teeth. She opens her mouth to say something but Stan clears his throat. I blink. I forgot he was still here. He taps his watch and Wendy does this little "oh!" motion which is pretty hot, in that innocent schoolgirl way.

"Sorry, Kenny! I really have to go. The auditorium's to the left, there's a big sign pointing to it. I'll talk to you later!" she says, speaking quickly. She gives me a one-armed hug, grabs Stan's wrist, and drags him off up a set of stairs. I suppose boyfriends get backstage passes, then.

Instead of heading left, I head right and continue down a hall full of classrooms. The chances of it, seriously, are practically nil. Not only is it after-school, but I have no idea where I'm going. I don't know why I'm bothering. I mean, I _do_ know: I have a resolve, something I need to do. I need to find him and talk to him like I never had a chance to do. I just don't know why I came after school ended when he's most likely at home already. Oh, there's a classroom with its lights on at the end of the hall.

…and it just flew open. And God must love me.

A group of people file out of the room, two of them running full-speed towards the stairs Wendy took a bit ago. Most of them heading to the main hall and to the entrance. The rest laughing at something and amongst them a flash of red hair. It's Kyle. I flatten myself against the wall as my breath hitches.

I can't do much but stare at him while they wrap up their conversation. A blonde claps him on the shoulder, and I feel my blood boil, my lungs tighten, my face grow dark. I take a step forward, then stop.

His friends, or whatever they are, disperse. He's alone, somehow. We're both alone in the same room for the second time in two years. My heart is practically beating out of my chest. Fuck, it hurts to look at him and stay crushed against this wall trying to propel me towards him. He leans against the wall on his side of the room and closes his eyes, his lips slightly parted, his chest moving up and down under his sweater. He's as fucking amazing as ever. He's incredible.

I don't notice I've stepped away from the wall and towards him until his eyes snap open. I freeze like Kyle's some predator that'll pounce as soon as I make a noise. Right, because Kyle's the one who chased me down at school on a post-epiphany whim, right? He's staring right at me with those green-brown eyes. Then he bolts towards the entrance. Fuck, I need to do something. He can't. _He can't_.

I grab his arm and it sends shocks to my brain, more so than last night when I was wasted enough for my thinking to be a bit clouded. All in a second, he thrashes against me and nearly sends me straight down to the floor.

"Don't you _fucking_ touch me, you son of a -"

"Iwantyouback," the words spill out of my mouth and merge with each other. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I've been holding.

He stands there, looking limp and tired, he shakes his head, swears and kicks the concrete wall, just barely biting his lip when his foot makes obviously painful contact. Going from cold to hot, from one extreme to another. I'm comfortable because it's familiar.

"Are you okay?" I ask hesitantly.

"Fucking fine!"

He reaches into his pocket, puts something in his mouth, then begins to pace in front of me. He's not moving towards the entrance anymore. I guess that's a good sign, in retrospect. Considering he almost tore my arm out of its socket when I tried to stop him just now, it's a lucky thing he's staying put.

"What the hell are you doing here? How did you know where to find me? How'd you know I would be here?"

Fuck, this is hard. The way he moves, the way his curls bounce as he paces, the way he looks at me with those eyes which although vicious have a familiar fire in them. It's misplaced passion, and I have to fight myself to stay calm. I lick my suddenly dry lips. "I came here with Stan. He's here for Wendy's concert. I… didn't think I had any chance of finding you, actually. Lady Luck, right?" I try to smile but it feels more like a grimace.

He stops pacing, and looks at me, his eyes searching me up and down,. He's trying to figure something out in that head of his, I'm sure of it. I reach my hand out. If I could just -

"I told you not to touch me," he whispers dangerously, pinning me against the wall. My breathing is strained, my heart still racing and skipping every other beat as his hot breath reaches my face, my neck. Mints. I fucking knew it.

"And I told you I want you back, but you didn't say shit to that, did you?" He squeezes my wrists against the cold concrete and I suck in a breath through my teeth. The way his nails are starting to dig into my skin hurts, but at the same time I don't want him to ever let go. "Just fucking talk to me, would you?"

"WHY CAN'T YOU JUST LEAVE ME ALONE?" His breathing erratic, his eyes on the brink.

"BECAUSE YOU LEFT _ME _ALONE! I DON'T TO BE ALONE, KYLE!" I scream back. He grip loosens, his breath settles. This is eerily familiar. I've been here before. It makes me feel even worse. I close my eyes tightly. When I open then again, we're in exactly the same position. I don't know whether I'm relieved or scared as shit.

"I'm going to ask you not to come see me again, Kenny. I'm going to ask you to stay the hell away from me and to go back to your life so we can each have our own like before," he says, and it hurts to hear that restraint in his voice, keeping himself from sceaming. That restraint for me. Fuck it, he hasn't changed a bit. I shake my head frantically, looking him in the eye.

"I don't want to." My voice cracks. My eyes feel dry enough, but I'm sure they betray something right about now. His mouth is parted slightly, and he looks at a loss for what to do, his teeth grinding together in rage but his eyes crinkled in sadness.

It worked last night, and by this point, I've got nothing left to lose. And no, my dignity doesn't count. I lean forward, seizing the opportunity, and capture his lips in mine tenderly. I feel him stop breathing, but I'm not paying attention. I'm willing myself to just focus on him alone, this moment in itself. I feel his grip on my wrists tighten, and he drags me higher up the wall, the backs of my hands scraping against the rough, painted-over stone.

He's moving his lips against mine, he's biting my bottom lip. I let out a low moan in the back of my throat and his breath hitches as he presses himself against me. I'm aching, my pants suddenly tight and my breath coming out in spurts. I'm aching to hold onto him, to tangle my hands in his hair but he won't let go of my wrists even as I twist and turn in his grip. In desperation, I raise my hips to meet his and feel his own hardness press against me. He moans into my mouth as my tongue battles for some sort of control over the situation. My lips are pulsating, bruising, and I can't let go of him. I can't let go of this or this moment. I need to stay like this, I need him, I want -

I fall to the floor with a resounding thud, ending up on the other side of the narrow hall. I can't catch my breath, his taste is still in my mouth.

"Stay away from me. Got it?"

I watch Kyle as he makes his way to the door. No, I can't let him go. I need him. I run up behind him, wrap my arms around him, breathe him in. Then I'm holding my nose with my eyes shut tight in pain, groaning as I feel blood trickle down my face. I look at him, glaring with eyes that feel too moist. He looks at me, then somewhere behind me, and finally runs out the door, makes a sharp left, and he's gone.

I stare at the place where he stood for a while, letting the blood run down my chin and stain my shirt. It's on, Kyle. You've now given me every reason not to give up on you and, God help me, I'll take full advantage of that.

Someone clears their throat behind me, but the concert can't be over yet, right? I turn around, trying in vain to cover the damage done. It's Stan, and the look on his face says it all.


End file.
